Dot here for Amazing Adventures
Dot is here, looking forward to amazing adventures.
"Here" being a one room apartment two floors above a restaurant. The apartment eternally smells of cheese. There is a metal frame bed, a chest of drawers, and hot plate of questionable safety standards. The bathroom is... clean, at least.
She unpacks into the chest of drawers: from the duffel bag she got from the Lost and Found in the bus station, a spare hoodie also from the Lost and Found. She earned $30 helping an old lady carry a heavy trunk into her apartment (that Dottie suspected either contains 50 year old clothing or a dead body or both), which has been used to purchase a pack of underwear, a spare blouse, and toiletries, all of which go into drawers or the bathroom. The clothes on her back are on loan from "Mama," the matriarch of the business establishment below. The handcuffs (that cop should NOT have been sleeping on duty) and the knife (that street thug should NOT have addressed her so rudely) remain in her cardigan pockets.
It's not much. But it's not prison. Dottie smiles into a faded mirror attached to the bathroom door. It's a start.
Just one last thing.
She pulls out a printout she got from the public library, with the aid of a friendly library assistant who was willing not to ask why Dottie's concept of the Internet was 16 years out of date, because she actually got something to do for once. A printout from the New York Times.
She tucked the obituary of Peggy Carter into the frame of the mirror. "There's work to be done."
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It's convenient, I guess, that work and home are the same. It's annoying, though, I can't get away from work. From the smell of bread, cookies, pizza, barbecue. There are a lot of joints in NYC that call themselves southern, or southern BBQ, or North Carolina BBQ (vinegar, can you imagine?). But there are exactly two places that have real Texas barbecue, a real smoker with a chimney that exhausts from a pipe that reaches all the way to top of the building. Lord, the permits it took to make that happen. The rest are pretenders. Just my luck to fall in love with a Brooklyn girl who refused to leave home. And so we run the one-and-only-in-the-world Italian deli, bakery, and Texas BBQ. At least, that is what Google turns up. Our chicken pesto brisket sandwich made for an episode on Diner's Drive-Ins and Dives, the triple DDD. The hipsters poured in at that point. That was a few years ago. Things have died down since then. We have a new girl who is a wizard with the ovens. She opens things up at 3:00 am, baking bread and rolls, and a guy named Frank who is good enough manning the smoker and prepping for coffee and breakfast. Alarm goes off at 5 every day and I'm downstairs by 5:20. People start rolling in around 5:30 and it goes forever after that. Dukes (Italian Deli and Texas Barbecue). It isn't sexy, but it's a living.
*K-thud.* *K-thud.* *K-thud.*
There was something comforting about the rhythm of kneading. Physical. Strengthening. Purposeful, forceful, yet sustaining rather than destructive. The kitchen wafted with the embracing yeasty scent of baking bread, evoking hazy memories of an early childhood so long ago and so different from the rest of her life, Dottie wasn't always fully certain they were hers.
She shaped the dough and put it into a bowl and then its warming drawer to proof. One batch had gone in. Others sat cooling. She took a still warm roll, reflexively tearing it in half and leaving one portion out for a comrade never there to take it, almost not even noticing her old habit. The other half she sank her teeth into. Soft and moist and filling. Some self-proclaimed "foodie" once told her bread was best and most flavorful once cooled. Feh. They were missing an opportunity.
Cars and trucks roared by. Then sirens. More of those lately--people on the streets said--since the Stylers were put out of business. Others angling to take their place. Americans wasting their "dream" scrapping for a rat-infested street corner, to sell poison to those too weak to face their problems head-on, then profits willingly handed to overlords who never got their own hands dirty with the filth they spread. Dottie frowned. Such greed. Such waste.
But dealing with such things didn't have a recipe to indicate where to begin. When to strike, when to wait. Right now she was listening. Preparing. Getting a feel for the rhythms of the world she had just returned to.
The others would be down soon. The day would begin.
The underside of the neighborhood is a mess. Punisher, Luke Cage, the Devil of Hell's Kitchen. Things have been rough for the organized crime lately. But that doesn't mean they are gone. There is always someone else. Russians reaching North, Italians moving South, Triads moving East...
Sleepy eyed and looking rough Frank drifted past Dottie with a nod and the same mumbled greeting he gave every day;
”Morning… or is it still night?”
Girls a machine. Does she ever sleep?
As he set to work functioning the smoker and setting up the coffee pot levels, Frank tried not to lapse into the reflection on his current status quo….
… and duly failed;
This is good work. Honest work. For a dishonest man just trying to make his way on this mortal…
His eyes flicked to the calloused bruises on the backs of both his hands and wrists – mementos of a previous life and another name;
…Coil…
The all-too familiar wail of the sirens snaps him back. Looking up he catches the statuesque bread-maker frowning in her own thoughts.
”Huh. Seems we ain’t the only dawn larks on the clock.”
"Mmm." She picks up the uneaten half of the roll and hands it to Frank in flour-dusted food-safety gloves (that happen to be concealing the old marks on her own wrists).
"At least the police are working. Doesn't seem to be doing much good, though. I keep expecting some goon to force his way in and demand protection money." That would be fun.
"You sleep well, Frank?" She checks on the rolls in the oven.
Frank takes the roll with a weak smile, placing it next to a battered thermos he'd filled with the first batch of morning coffee.
At Dottie's warning scenario he shrugs his shoulders;
"Too early. Most likely hit us up for takings at the end of the night..."
Talkin' like a crim Frank. New you remember.
He grimaces at a thought, then continues;
"... Leastways that's what happens in the movies an' cop shows."
As she checks the ovens, Dottie misses Frank shaking his head to himself;
"Sleep? Me? Always. Like a log." Not for a long time.
His downbeat tone is at odds with the upbeat words.
"I didn't take you for a movie buff, Frank." She closes the oven door and sets a timer nearby. "Maybe you're watching too many of those shows, you sound a bit down."
She goes for the coffee once it's ready, and assembles herself a cup with a very generous shake of the sugar dispenser.
She reaches for the remote to the restaurant TV, usually set between sports or cooking depending on which of the owners touched it last. "Will it be too depressing if I put on the news?"
"Just the classics - Walker: Texas Ranger, Con Air y'know..."
Frank shrugs again, all the while internally wilting;
Con Air? Why not drop in Oz, Shawshank and Prison Break you mook.
He focusses on getting the smoker up and fired;
"Go for it. See what'll be lining tomorrow's bird cages..."
Earl Laduc comes from an ancient East Texas family, his accent all soft Gulf Southern. Earl is 70 years old and looks like he has spent a fair amount of time in smoker himself. Earl signed up to serve in the jungles of Vietnam a lifetime ago. Two tours as a marine, doing things he doesn't like to talk about. He came home and got a job as a cook, but he found that home just wasn't home anymore, so he hit the road. It took a decade of wandering around the country before he fell head over heels with a Brooklyn girl unironically named Sofia.
Earl and Sofia put their life savings into this place 20 years ago, and rode the waves of transformation that have washed over the neighborhood. They've paid their fair share of protection money to 10 different gangs in that time. Duke's seems to sit on some sort of border, constantly fluctuating.
Earl has always had a soft spot for a hard case, and a firm handshake and a look in the eyes is all he needs to give someone a second chance. He puts up with no crap, but he doesn't judge people based on where they've been.
------------------
The local news is typically sensational. Coyotes in the suburbs, exploding manhole covers. There are a few lingering stories about the Punisher, Frank Castle. "Frank Castle remains at large, today. Where might the Punisher strike next? Should you be afraid... We'll break it down, after the weather."
Dottie chuckles at Frank's drifting off. "Con Air, huh? It's okay, you don't have to go quiet. I don't care if you know."
(What Frank may or may not know is she straight up told Earl and Sofia she was an ex-con when applying for a job. She figured it was as good an explanation as any as to why she didn't have any connections or a penny to her name, and the risk worked--they were the sort who liked to help people get second chances. She did NOT tell them that she may have ended her sentence prematurely--but again, hiding in plain sight and all that. So, while she hears Frank's fluctuations in tone of voice, and knows they could mean anything, she takes the prompt to throw it in a certain direction and see what sticks.)
She turns on the TV and turns to CBS local news. (For some reason ABC just makes her angry.)
"Uh oh, we've got a vigilante named 'Frank,' Frank. Better lay low," she teases. The timer dings, and she checks on the rolls again. Satisfied at their golden-brown-ness, she removes two giant trays and slides them into cooling racks. "What's that guy about, anyway?"
Frank watches the report with a hard stare;
The Punisher. Maybe I got out at the right time.
At Dottie's teasing he frowns and grumbles an answer;
"Who knows. Media say he's a mad dog... Folk on the street at least think he's more real than urban legends like the Devil of Hell's Kitchen and such like costumed super types..."
The timer refocusses his thoughts;
"Who knows what makes him tick and ticked off... Axe to grind. Vengeance killer? Maybe overly questioning colleague. All those things could send someone over the edge..."
He chuckles to himself as he mulls stacking the smoker.
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Face focused on breadrolls, Dottie notes he doesn't respond to her hint about her past. Oblivious, uncaring, or has his own past he doesn't want to discuss, so doesn't ask about others'.
She starts mixing the next batch of dough, which would be baked later for the mid-afternoon. Hands assemble flour, eggs, milk, salt, prepared yeast in a now practiced routine.
She does pick up on "overly questioning colleague." Internally, she's amused. Externally, she looks up and puts on an abashed, wide-eyed frown. "G-gosh, I'm sorry Frank. You shoulda said I was bothering you."
She goes into a quiet frown as she mixes the dough, listening to the television as a toothpaste commercial fades into the news report. More rain.
Leftover brisket and pulled pork from last night become filling for breakfast biscuits. Breakfast pastries, Breakfast paninis, Italian croissants, and gallons of espresso move out the door as the neighborhood awakens from its not quite sleep. About the only concession to health food is egg white omelettes. Of course, there are some fools who order an egg white omelette with a pastry and a diet coke. Hard to understand people like that.
The working class customers come in around 6, followed by the yippies closer to 8-10. 10 to 11 you guys are cleaning up and the afternoon crew is coming in to serve lunch.
Today, an unfamiliar face enters. He is young, maybe 20. Wears a tracksuit. Red with 3 stripes down the arms and legs. He wears sunglasses. His haircut does not improve the look of his face, which might have been carved from wood with an axe. Pox scars, maybe? Definitely smoking too much.
He wanders up to the counter, looking at the menu boards. Laura is working the register. Laura is 20. Smart. Should be in college. Can't afford it.
Tracksuit says, "Hey, Bro. Where's your boss, Bro? I need to talk to the big man..."
Laura seems confused, then calls back to the kitchen, "Duke, someone here wants to see you!"
Frank pauses from composing a witty reply to Dottie (and changing the filters on the coffee machine), as the newcomer enters asking for Duke.
He watches tracksuit with a quiet gaze.
Bro?! Kid needs glasses. Laura wasn't a "Bro"...
Dottie habitually eyes all the newcomers as she does anyone she interacts with for more than a second or two. It seems odd for a newcomer to be directly asking for the boss.
Is he packing heat? Anything else odd about the fella?
"Morning sir. Did you have a to go order?"
There is a bulge in the small of his back that is some sort of automatic handgun, and a slender packet in his left forearm that is likely a knife sheath. His sunglasses are raybans, expensive and retro.
He has the carriage of a man who is accustomed to violence.
The man looks Dottie up and down, appreciating what he sees. "No order, bro, just looking for a conversation. But I'd take you to go, you know, bro. Take you reeeal far, bro."
Frank pauses again, shooting a look at the cocky newcomer with a grimace;
Once upon a time I'd have squeezed you til your ribs popped bro. Once.
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Well, he's not here for the pork biscuit.
"Well, how could I resist such charm?" replies Dottie with a smile a little too larger than life.
She spreads her hands.
"Well, Frank here says those conversations usually don't happen until closing time. Perhaps you'd like to come back then? If not, while Laura goes and looks for our Papa," she gestures firmly to Laura to go into the rear office, "how 'bout you come to my office while we wait, and," she smiles suggestively at him, "I can show you some of our very best hospitality." She indicates a door going into the rear storeroom where supplies are unloaded from the back alley.
Laura sneers at Tracksuit, clearly not intimidated.
Tracksuit shrugs his shoulders in a way that suggests it is no big thing. His hand slides over his forehead as he moves into the storeroom, glancing around.
"Now that's the spirit, bro, that's how it goes..."
As Dottie invites the tracksuited thug outside, Frank watches with interest, and growing concern...
She know what she's doin'? Maybe its a legit invite... could be Dottie's one of them nymphomaniaxes or whatever they're called I keep reading 'bout in Playboy...
Dottie leads him to the storeroom, and with a flick of the wrist and a naughty grin, slams the door shut. She walks toward him, directing her approach in a way that he is leaning against a wall. With one hand she traces a finger down his chest--"Hello bro,"--while she plants the other against the wall in such a way it would make it much harder for him to reach for his gun.
She leans toward him (all the better to grapple you with, my dear) and whispers in his ear.
The finger on his chest ever so gently presses into a painful pressure point where his arm meets his shoulder.
Dottie backs off just the tiniest of bits. She smiles, pleased. She is glad for once to meet a thug who knows when it's the right time to talk rather than fight. She's sure she'll eventually have some fun fighting these idiots later, but for now she wants to leave her shelter, her place of honest work, safe.
She does a bit of math in her head. She isn't paid a lot, but it is cash under the table, and she only has to pay utilities for her room. She does not need a lot to live on, and can do without that sniper rifle she was saving up for for the time being. She can afford $250 a week herself. There could be room for negotiation, but she decides not to press things. There are customers in the front. She wants no ugly noises.
She nods.
Frank continues to tinker, his brow furrowed and shooting glances toward the storeroom door.
He hears voices... talking, but not the carnal soundtrack that was implied.
What the hell's going on in there?
Fleeting he thinks of heading up to his room... to the battered peli-case under his bed... donning what lies within.
Dammit Frank. You fix coffee and cook brisket. Nuthin' else...
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Laura looks at Frank,"What the hell is that about? Dottie usually keeps to herself. I've never seen her fraternize with a customer, before. What's going on?"
Tracksuit squints as he tries to process what is happening here. He might have thought he was heading into a more XXX situation here, so he a little confused.
"So you are paying, and we will deal with you. Got it. Business flows through you, War Widow, or Dottie. Not what I expected, bro. But that words well enough. Not sure why your are protecting this Duke, but whatever you like."
"Excellent. I'll see you later then." She steps away and opens the door into the alley for him, waving for him to go through.
Presuming he departs without any issue, she pauses, peers through the door to see what direction he goes in, and then shuts the door and returns to the kitchen. She removes her current pair of food prep gloves, which have been tainted with the scent of Axe, to replace them with a fresh set.
She raises an eyebrow and smiles at the erstwhile barbecuer. "Turns out it's not like it's in the movies, Frank."
Then to Laura, "Did Duke ever come out? Where is he, anyway?"
At Laura's question he shrugs dramatically;
"Who knows. Maybe tracksuited low-lifers are her thing..?"
When the erstwhile Dottie returns Frank eyes her curiously, noting she's not adjusting clothing, nor looking in the least bit flushed or flustered.
Damn she's a cool one...
As she changes gloves, he flashes a faint smile;
"Guess so..."
She snaps on the new gloves, for a moment one might catch a glimpse of old, white abrasion scars encircling each wrist, before the gloves cover them up.
"You look puzzled, Frank. You had enough coffee yet?"
The day is still young when Dottie and Frank finish their work. That is what happens when you go to work in the middle of the night. As the typical day unfolds, the lunch rush takes the attention of the few who work the day, and then most nights one of a rotating few musicians comes in to play during the night shift between 8 and 12. Most of them play blues guitar and sing the songs of the delta.
This night there is a skilled guitarist in his 60's, the kind who would make you wonder why he never made it big if you still believed in the American Dream. You've learned to enjoy the faint music in the distance or to ignore it completely, depending on your wont.
Tonight, as you sit or sleep in your inadequately air conditioned efficiency, around 10 o'clock, when the safe is flush with cash, the music suddenly stops and you hear what is undoubtedly the sound of small arms fire. There might be shouting, there is certainly screaming, but it is too far away to make out clearly.
Regardless, something is happening downstairs...
Dottie sighs impatiently when Earl still doesn't come out of the office. She opens the door, "Papa Duke! This is important!"
Perhaps he was absorbed in paperwork, or listening to the radio. She waves to Frank to come in with her, and Laura too, if no one immediately needs to be served.
Presuming they come in (Laura optional), Dottie shuts the door and turns up the radio. Her usual perky demeanor is faded, replaced with stone-cold business. "A mook from the Bratva just came in to shake us down for protection money. I've dealt with jerks like him before, so I got him to leave for the time being. I told him to come deal with me from now on. I'll handle it, I'll keep them from being nuisances--" she holds up a finger before anyone interjects, "This is not a subject for discussion." She says firmly, with a dark flash to her eyes, and continues speaking before she can be interrupted.
"What I need to know from you, Duke, is if there's anyone else you've paid off that might be vying for this street. I don't want to get you caught in the middle of something. And you two," she points to Frank and Laura, "If any of those greasy jerks in the tracksuits with the accents show up, you just send them to me, okay? Or come get me if there's trouble."
Frank follows when bid, a weary look upon his face as he stands listening;
Town Hall's are never a good thing...
He almost comments, but Dottie's perfectly timed warning finger causes his comment to die in his throat.
When she barks their order, Frank looks to Laura, then back at Dottie with a hard stare;
"In my limited... Yeah right ... experience. Knockin' heads with any mob or gang mook just brings bigger fish with a bigger bite. You want to handle them Dottie, then lady be my guest. Just know that pounding that dough, an' doin' some kickboxacise classes don't make you the next Punisher!"
He shoots Papa Duke a look that half pleads, half warns, before nodding with a resigned tone;
"You know I ain't looking for trouble Papa D. Don't need it, nor want it. Accented tracksuits come back we get Dottie no worries..."
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Dottie smiles. "Trust me when I say I have zero desire to be the Punisher. And you're exactly right, Frank. No violence has broken out so far, and I hope I can keep it that way. But if push comes to shove..." She shrugs and grins. "Well, let's hope they can stand the heat if they get sent to the kitchen."
Frank shrugs again with a slightly concerned look;
"More the heat in the alley I'm worried about..."
Duke sweats in a way that is different from what is caused by the smoker or hard work. If you had to guess, you would say he is embarrassed, which is not something you've seen before.
"I was paying some I-talians $2000 a week up until about a month ago. Then they stopped coming 'round. I reckon with the recent troubles territories have changed. I wouldn't be surprised to see some asians rolling in to cause trouble. But you, Dottie. I can see that you have seen some trouble before, but you don't need to be messing with Russian gangs, none. We can pay..."
"Hmmm. The Russian fella asked for a lot less. I'm not sure what that's about, apart from starting low and raising the price later." She purses her lips. "As for my messing with gangs--he had a gun on him when he came in. I didn't want him to hurt the customers--or you, Duke. Not many folks'd give a girl like me a chance to start over."
She leans over the desk and gives him a possibly real smile, and says quietly. "That's nothing to be ashamed of."
She straightens. "Anyway, I'd rather not be out of a job because of I didn't act when I could. I'll have a chat with him tomorrow morning, and I'll check in with you about any further business arrangements later. It's that blonde with the sticky-out ears will be here in two minutes for her office's breakfast order."
Dottie had a long day. After her shift she had gone out, still getting a feel for the layout of the neighborhood, watching comings and goings to see where criminals might operate. Strained her ears for accents (both borough accents and non-American-born ones), determining which gangs might be operating in the area. She picked up on which cars were hack cabs.
She also was trying to pick up a few leads on where she could get a decent ID--one, she heard was in Hell's Kitchen--but, she was also warned, "things get weird" around there. That was either a good reason not to go--or a very good reason to go. But maybe there'd be something more convenient to pop up.
After errands, she had gone back to her apartment for a nap. She had wanted to get up early, before her shift, and check on gang movements and activity at night.
The noises downstairs woke her instantly. Thank goodness she had gotten herself out of the habit of handcuffing herself to the bed decades ago--needed to move fast. A sick feeling came and went--did she handle the Bratva kid too easily? Let him hoodwink her? Was she rusty?--and she let those doubts go as she heard the gunfire again. Here. Now. Survive. Act.
She grabbed her knife, palming it tight. She opened her window and the iron barred gate that led to her fire escape. Barefoot, in leggings and a nightshirt, down Dottie went, using the rails to flip off of as she landed gracefully in the alley. Which way was the gunfire--toward the store room, or in the front? She followed the sound and crept toward it till she might see or hear better what was going on.
Frank too had a long day. The brush with the tracksuited ganger had brought his new start back to familiar grounds... criminal organisations - small, big or global would always come knocking - to hire him or fire him...
Thoughts briefly turned to Dottie and her confidence in dealing with the Russian... She knew exactly what she was doing, and that in turn made him uneasy. Maybe someone had already made him... Maybe that why she headed out after busting her butt all day. Woman either is a machine, or she's got business to attend to.
Sighing he stared long at the pelicase containing a previous life. When they come, they'll come for that. Frank Payne will be collateral. The Constrictor is the prize.
He stowed the case back under his bed, mulling what to do next... and drifted.
Gunshots woke him with a start.
Nearby? No. Inside. Downstairs inside.
As he rises, grabbing jogging pants and a vest his eyes fall on the case for a second. Problem solver. Problem maker.
Frank makes his way out onto the landing, passing a storage cupboard. Realising he's hopelessly unarmed, he pauses eying its contents for something anything that he can use.
Mop? Nah. Hammer... Potential. An old cast iron pot? What am I... Forbush Man? Spare kitchen spray hose... 15ft. Used to 30. Braided stainless steel... It'll do. Have to.
Grabbing the metal hose keeping it coiled in his hand and makes his way downward...
Something hard seems to curl around Duke's guts as Dottie mentions second chances. "Second chances are only worth the effort that is made to take advantages of them. I've never had any interest in your histories, but let's not throw away what we all have here doing anything foolish. Money is money, and blood is blood. Don't go gettin confused about which one matters."
It is clear to anyone who knows what to look for that the streets are hopping. Russians, Koreans, Chinese, Chechens, African American gangs like 11 Crew, even a few dregs of the Jamaican gangs recently crushed by the Hero of Harlem. With all of the recent vigilante activity, everything is destabilized. There is even the occasional freelancer taking advantage of the chaos, running a couple girls, a three card monte game, the occasional street hustle.
The last twang of the guitar hangs in the air, thrumming through brick and bone, the echo of gunshots through the open front door, coming from the dining/serving room.
Creeping from the alley, Dottie looks through the large plate glass window to see three youngsters, teens, jean jacket, leather jacket, yellow hoodie, balaclavas. Male, two with 9mm pistols, one with a Remington 870 shotgun. That beast hasn't roared yet. Kid is nervous. Eyes and mouth are of East Asian decent. Shoulders and grip on guns suggest lack of training.
Dining room is full of bystanders, small stage with guitar man sitting.
Dottie is slightly annoyed as to why both men seem to jump to the conclusion she's aiming for a fight when she was talking business. Does she come off so reckless? How does her saying "I saw a guy with a gun so I pulled him away from the customers" translate to her hungry for a fight in their eyes? Had prison dulled her performance so much?
Then again, most men she knew would solve the problem first with their fists, headfirst, and recklessly. She shrugged. It was a matter of projection, she decided.
Of course, none of them were aware that should Dottie want blood, it would have come, and quick flowing. But now was not the time for that.
She decides she needs to make it crystal clear as she can. "I want a job, I want you and me to be safe, so if any fights break out, I am not the one who started it."
Dottie eyes the scene as she approaches from the front. The back of her mind is aware of the streets themselves, but hopefully any passersby ran at the sound of gunshots. The rest of her focused on the assailants within. Young. Stupid. Different gang. The Mafia must indeed have been ousted, and now Bratva and what, Triads? Or something else... trying to gain territory. Maybe she was doomed to lose her home no matter what. Wouldn't be the first time.
She looks to see if anyone had been shot, or were they doing one of those stupid "fire in the air to be intimidating" shots. (It was always fun when those ricocheted back to the idiot who fired.) If one of them shot a person, they were blooded, they were more likely to keep hurting someone.
As she looks, she creeps toward the door.
The shots have gone into the ceiling, and had I thought of it, I would have them gone through the floor into Frank's room. Let's go with that. That is way better than what I did. These kids don't appear to be out to kill anyone if they don't have to. Perhaps they are just trying to prove themselves...
Frank clocks the gun-toters and grimaces;
Sack this. Need to deal with these trio of idiots... before they hurt someone...
Instinctively he moves toward the alley, trying to circle around the gun-toters and get them jump on them, whilst being mindful they mind have minders or wheelmen waiting nearby...
:
:
Dottie's eyes go up to the ceiling. Welp, Frank got an ugly wakeup call. She hears a very large clatter toward the kitchen. Sounds like he made it though. She smirks.
She herself sneaks up a little more gracefully--until she pushes open the door and does not remember until that exact moment that there's a bell on it that alerts when a customer enters.
She makes the most of it, swings the door open widely, and grins, hoping to get as much attention as possible. "Hi! Is this where the pajama party is tonight?"
Yep, it's risky. But when you're a 93 year old sociopath grieving for your only friend ever, you're kind of out of kaka to give. May as well have some fun!
The boy's heads snap toward the noise in the kitchen before jean jacket and leather jacket snap back toward the door, taking in all of Dottie, not thinking much of her other than as a piece of anglo meat.
Yellow hoodie, shotgun man, keeps his focus though. Clearly something is up in the kitchen...
He calls out, "Hey, in the kitchen, come out here or we start painting the walls with these nice customers."
He presses the barrel of his shotgun into the temple of a young bearded man in wearing a soft cap and vintage jacket.
The other two focus their attention on Dottie, "Put that pretty face on the ground, nyeon!"
They move in close. Demonstrating a lack of experience, at least with real combat. When you are holding a gun, why sacrifice your advantage?
She is tempted to toy with them a bit, but the one with the shotgun is clearly more focused and the biggest threat. If people die here, the more likely the place gets shut down, even if temporarily. All because children want to try to show off.
Dottie holds up her hands and leans over, making like she is going to comply with their orders. She even drops her pocket knife.
And then cartwheels between Thug Number One and Thug Number Two to get to shotgun boy.
And then as she lands, she twists to kick the shotgun out of Number Three's hands.
Frank emerges from the kitchen, coil of hose in hand, trying to look sheepish and intimidated;
"Easy fellas. Just doin' some late night repairs... Nothin' doin' from me... No trouble..."
:
As he speaks he moves forward, trying to subtly close the distance...